Mrs. Ingram,” Clara tried for what was probably the hundredth time since returning to Dane House from Lord and Lady Crabtree’s nearly an hour ago, “surely I can be of help somewhere.”
“Help?” The housekeeper shook her head emphatically, even as she gently guided Clara out of the way of two maids carrying armfuls of linens. “My lady, I assure you I have everything well under control. Why, I started preparing for just such a contingency the moment Lord Oswin began courting our Lady Phoebe.”
Of course she would. Clara let out a frustrated breath. The housekeeper had spent the better part of three decades making herself indispensable to the comfort of the Dukes of Dane; it should have been no surprise that she would have foreseen that such actions would be necessary, no matter that the news had completely surprised the rest of them. It also should not have surprised Clara that Mrs. Ingram would adamantly refuse her offers of help.
“Now,” Mrs. Ingram continued with a distracted smile, her sharp eyes remaining fixed on the servants as they bustled about them in the upper hallway, “don’t worry your head any longer about any of this. Why don’t you have a nice rest in your rooms. I’m thinking you need it after the excitement of the past days.”
And with that she was off, Clara already forgotten as she barked orders to two footmen carrying a chest to Phoebe’s rooms.
Clara, well and truly dismissed, and knowing that any further attempts to make herself useful would only accomplish the opposite, heaved a sigh and made her way to her rooms. But instead of sitting herself down and occupying herself in pursuits deemed proper for a gentlewoman as Mrs. Ingram had no doubt intended, she strode to the windows and looked down into the verdant green that was the center of Grosvenor Square. Within the shady depths nannies held the hands of impatient toddlers, couples strolled arm in arm, young ladies giggled with heads bent together. It was a lively scene. Yet from the relative peace of her room, with only the muted sounds of work behind her closed door, she felt as if she were looking at a painting.
No, that wasn’t quite right, was it? For out there was life. She was the painting, one-dimensional, lacking passion and warmth. Mere brushstrokes on canvas. And she would remain unchanging while the rest of the world moved on.
She pressed her hand flat to the glass before her and dragged in a deep breath, trying to dislodge the maudlin thoughts—as well as to tamp down on the restlessness she felt for more than what she was destined. Goodness, but this wasn’t like her at all. Despite all that life had thrown at her, she had always managed to remain cheerful and useful. And she would find a way to be useful again. Her lips twisted. Somehow.
She stood there for a time, feeling as if she were caught between two worlds, every lively interaction below or sound of busywork behind making her feel trapped until her body was nothing but a mass of tension. Unable to stand the inaction a moment longer, she pushed away from the window. Surely there was something she could do to be of benefit. A quick glance at the clock over the mantel told her the afternoon was quickly marching by. Her family was due to return soon from Lord and Lady Crabtree’s. No matter that she was not needed in the packing preparations, there was still much to do. Her sister’s wedding was only a month away, after all.
She faltered at that. To her, Phoebe was still that child who used to dance to imaginary music and drag her dolls everywhere she went, not a woman about to be married. But after a moment, Clara squared her shoulders, marching out her bedroom door and through the upstairs hallway. Phoebe was a woman grown, and she’d best remember it. Now was the time for joy and hope. No matter that her heart grieved that life would never be the same.
She hurried to the ground floor, her mind busy. Surely they would all appreciate a refreshing drink after being out on this overwarm day. She would go down to the kitchens, have something prepared for their return.
Just as her feet hit the last tread, she heard a pounding at the front door. With the butler in the attic directing his footmen in the removal of the trunks, Clara did not think twice about redirecting her steps. She reached the door just as another barrage of knocks sounded. In the back of her mind she recognized the desperate quality to the pounding, alerting her to the fact that this was no casual caller. Her hand, however, was late in getting the message, for it swung the door wide, to reveal—
“Mr. Nesbitt,” she breathed.
Goodness, how was it that her memories from just that morning did not do him justice? She drank him in as she had not allowed herself to earlier in front of Peter and Lenora. Sun-darkened skin, so much more attractive than the pale complexions of the men of London. Inky hair that fell in thick, unruly waves over his forehead. A lean form that exuded strength and a predatory grace. And those eyes. Heavens, but they were dark, so dark she thought she might lose herself in them and never find herself again.
But what must he think of her, standing there staring at him as if he were a cream pastry. Cheeks flaming, she forced a smile. “Mr. Nesbitt. We did not expect to see you again until this evening.”
“Ah, yes, my apologies, Lady Clara,” he mumbled, sketching a belated bow and scanning the hall behind her with barely concealed agitation. “I seem to have lost track of the time.”
Not knowing what else to do, only knowing she could not leave him standing on the front step, Clara moved back. “Please, come in.”
How was it, she thought a bit wildly as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, that the cavernous front hall could feel so intimate? The soft click of the latch, the sudden loss of bright daylight, the subsequent muffling of all outside noise made her even more aware of the tall, powerful man before her. Flustered, she looked about for something to do, and her eyes lit upon the side table nearby. Ah, yes, his outerwear. As she turned to Mr. Nesbitt, however, intending to ask him for his things, she realized he was not wearing any. His head was quite bare, his hands as well. Hands that were incredibly strong, yet appeared as if they could be gentle were the situation to call for it…
Desperate to tamp down on her wandering thoughts, she blurted the first thing that came to her. “You have no outerwear.”
He looked utterly perplexed. His hand went to his head, and he blinked when he found nothing there. “Ah, no, I suppose I don’t. Is Peter home?”
The swift change of subject took her aback. “I’m sorry, but he’s not, though he should be returning shortly.” When he did nothing but nod morosely, his shoulders slumping almost in defeat, she took a step forward, lowering her voice. “Mr. Nesbitt, are you quite well?”
For a moment he looked as if he might either laugh or cry. In the end he smiled. It was a wide thing, filled with his usual devilish charm. It might have made her lose her breath again had his eyes not appeared as if he were burning from the inside out.
“Never better,” he proclaimed. “I don’t suppose I might wait for Peter?”
Which she should have offered from the very beginning. She flushed. “Of course. Please, forgive my thoughtlessness. I’m afraid my mind is elsewhere. If you’ll follow me?”
She turned and led the way up the stairs to the drawing room, stopping only to quietly direct a maid to bring a tray up. She cast a nervous glance out the window as she settled into a high-backed chair. Goodness, she hoped her family did not take much longer.
It was only as she turned her gaze back to Mr. Nesbitt that she realized he had stopped next to a chair and was looking down at it as if he could not fathom what he was supposed to do with it.
She offered him a strained smile. “Won’t you have a seat?”
He cast her a blank look before blinking and focusing on her. “Ah, no, thank you. I think I’d rather stand.”
She arched a brow. “I don’t know when Peter might return. It could be some time.”
“That’s quite all right.”
Truly, the man was acting most odd. She frowned. “Are you certain you’re well, Mr. Nesbitt?”
A strange noise seemed to issue from his throat, but beyond the faintest flicker of his dark eyes his face didn’t show the least change.
“Quite well,” he said, before, with only the slightest hesitation, he abruptly sat. He seemed to mentally shake himself, his demeanor changing in an instant to one of polite inquiry. “But how was Lord and Lady Crabtree’s? Did you not attend the meeting with them?”
Again the sudden about-face. It could not have been more obvious that the man was trying his best to keep the conversation far away from his well-being. Very well, she would not press.
“I did,” she said, “though I was sent home early by Margery after the pertinent information regarding the wedding was gone over.”
“Were you not feeling well?”
“Oh, I’m quite fit, thank you,” she said in what she hoped was not an overly bright manner. There was no way she was going to tell this man that she had been forced to leave because she had been distracted by thoughts of him.
He nodded, and she nodded. And the silence that fell was the loudest she had ever heard in her life.
Tangling her fingers together to keep from creasing her skirts, she blurted, “Peter says you are to leave England soon?”
He seemed relieved she had said anything at all, for he latched onto it with enthusiasm.
“Ah, yes. That’s correct, I’m to begin my travels.” In the next moment, however, his face darkened, the excitement that had overtaken his features replaced with something akin to desolation.
He cleared his throat. “And your sister, she is to marry soon?”
Which was the most painful topic he could have stumbled upon, at least after her unwelcome feelings for himself. “Er, yes. Yes she is.”
Again silent nodding on both their parts. She blew out a frustrated breath. Really, one of them had to give. But she had spent a decade and a half redirecting even the most innocuous conversations away from herself. If anyone would win this, it was she.
Unfortunately he seemed to have the same idea in mind.
“Do you miss Boston?”
“I do. Do you miss Danesford?”
“Yes. Do you have plans while in London?”
“Somewhat. When does your sister marry?”
“In a month. Peter mentioned you have family here in town?”
“I do. Will you live with your sister or return to Danesford?”
“I’m not certain. When do you leave on your journeys?”
He slumped in his seat, as if the weight of the world had fallen onto his shoulders. “I hardly know,” he muttered, looking defeated.
She frowned. “You don’t know when your trip will begin?”
He shook his head. “I had planned…But plans change, don’t they?”
Yes,” she answered cautiously when his dark eyes found hers. “Yes, they can change, quite unexpectedly at times.”
He let loose a sharp laugh, making her jump. Goodness. Earlier that afternoon he’d been his usual self, cheerful and teasing. Now, however, he appeared quite altered. It was almost as if he was in the beginning stages of grief.
In an instant her own worries were forgotten. That was it. She could see it in his eyes, the slight glazed look that spoke of a recent tragedy. Her heart ached for him, for there was no doubt he was suffering.
She leaned forward. “I know you came to speak to Peter, but if you should need an ear to bend in the interim, I’m here,” she murmured gently, laying her hand over his.
Too late, she remembered he was not wearing gloves. And neither was she.
A warm current snapped, searing her palm. Though the suddenness and strength of it shocked her, she was unable to pull back. Gradually, as if through a tunnel, she heard a harshly indrawn breath. She thought for a moment it was her own. But no, her breath was caught in her chest. The sound came from Mr. Nesbitt.
Before she could make heads or tails of his reaction—surely he could not feel even a modicum of what she did—he gently pulled his hand away.
She should feel relief. He at least was of a clearer frame of mind and saw just how improper her forward manner had been. Instead a strange feeling of loss came over her.
Thankfully a maid arrived with the tea tray, giving her just the thing she needed to collect herself. She had been lady of her father’s house for years; putting on the mantle of hostess was like shrugging into a comfortable coat. A coat that gave her some much needed protection against the effect that Mr. Nesbitt had on her.
“How do you take your tea?”
There was a beat of silence. She refused to look up at him. Eventually—finally—he spoke. “Sugar please.”
She nodded, still not looking at him, busying herself with pouring the beverage. A job that took her far longer than normal, perhaps. She glanced up when she handed him the cup and froze. His dark eyes were intent on her, a small line between his brows. She fought the urge to look in the mirror on the far wall to make certain she wasn’t sprouting feathers or something equally outrageous from her head.
“Is something amiss?”
“Not at all,” he hastened to assure her. But his strange perusal did not abate.
She cleared her throat, nervous fingers flying up to pat her hair. “Are you certain?”
“Perhaps you can help answer something for me.”
She blinked. “Ah, of course. What is it you wish to know?”
“If a person is set to inherit a title, and doesn’t want that title, how can he go about refusing it?”
Well, that was certainly unexpected. She frowned. “But…Peter has already accepted the dukedom.” There had been a time, of course, when her cousin had not wanted anything to do with her father’s title. But the wounds of the past had been healed, and he had taken to the position with a drive that had surprised everyone.
“I was not referring to Peter but to…someone else I know.”
“Someone from Boston?” she asked doubtfully. Truly, what were the chances of the man knowing two aristocrats in America who did not want to take up their responsibilities?
To her surprise he colored. “Er, yes. Yes, someone from Boston.” A pause. “You are a duke’s daughter, and so I thought you would know. I have been out of the country far too long and cannot recall the intricacies.”
His tone was calm enough, yet he looked at her with an intensity that the subject should not warrant. She flushed hot, clearing her throat, and leaned forward to prepare her own cup.
“If I am correct, one may simply not claim the title, and not refer to himself as such. That does not mean, however, that the title is not his. No one else may claim the title while he’s alive.”
“But if he doesn’t want it—” Frustration laced his voice.
“It doesn’t matter, I’m afraid,” she murmured, doing her best to appear disinterested as she stirred her beverage, though her insides burned with curiosity. Such an odd line of questioning, and such an intense reaction if his disheartened sigh was anything to go by. She glanced at him through her lashes as she settled back and saw that his shoulders were tense, his knuckles white as he gripped tight to the teacup. She imagined the delicate bone china shattering in his grip, so tightly did he seem to hold it.
“And so, despite his wishes, the title would just go on to his descendants after his death, should he have them,” he muttered almost to himself. “Which was why Peter was so damn adamant about remaining without issue before our previous visit. Ah, but pardon me.” He colored, his eyes apologetic as he glanced at her. The look quickly passed, his expression going distant again. “And to take up the title? If he wants it. Which I am sure he does not,” he said with a surprising amount of heat.
She took a sip of her hot beverage, not a little confused by his swift shifts in mood. “I suppose,” she said as she placed the cup carefully back on its saucer, “he must do as Peter did when he took up the title. He must apply for a Writ of Summons to the House of Lords.”
He looked positively ill. Then, bringing the cup to his lips, he drank it down to the dregs on one long swallow. Surely he must have burned his tongue, yet he didn’t so much as flinch.
An incredible thought came to her. Casting a quick glance at the open drawing room door, making sure no servants were within view, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Mr. Nesbitt, is it…are you the man in question?”
He blanched, looking at her with wide, pained eyes. Suddenly his expression shifted. He leaned toward her, his hands braced on his thighs. Tension swirled in the space between them, a space that now seemed incredibly close and intimate. She found herself swaying closer. He appeared about to speak—
A commotion in the front hall shattered the moment. She dragged in a shaking breath and sat back, putting as much distance between herself and the man before her as she could, brutally squashing the disappointment that sparked in her.
Mr. Nesbitt seemed to have forgotten her presence completely. He stood, not noticing his shin connect with the low table and rattle the tea set, his entire focus on the door to the drawing room. As Peter’s voice drifted to them he seemed to snap back into himself. “Pardon me,” he murmured. Then, with nary a glance her way, he strode from the room.
* * *
There had never been a time in Quincy’s life when he had needed Peter more. So much so that, as he barreled down the stairs to the ground floor, he conveniently forgot that his friend would not be alone.
He stopped in the middle of the gleaming marble floor, staring in incomprehension at the group of people before him. They were in conversation with the butler, handing over their outerwear, their voices a cacophony of cheerful sound. Not a one of them had noticed him. Thank goodness. Perhaps he could escape without being seen and return when his thoughts were not tangled like so much thread.
In the short time since leaving—no, fleeing—his mother’s house, he had been too shocked to fully make sense of his new reality. His brothers were dead? All of them? And he was the new duke? His mind could not contain the enormity of that. Surely his mother had been lying. This was some nightmare he would soon wake from, the coalescing of all his worst fears. Now that his life was finally his own, the very last thing he wanted was to be saddled with the responsibilities of a dukedom.
But no, the one small sane speck of his mind whispered as he inched back, trying to remain unobtrusive, this was all too real. In all his imaginings, he could never come up with something as heinous as this reality.
The group across the hall continued to chatter on, blessedly unaware of his presence. He would locate the servants’ entrance, run all the way back to Mivart’s, and not return until he was in full possession of his faculties.
That plan died a swift and complete death, however, when Lady Tesh turned and spied him.
“Mr. Nesbitt,” she called out in strident tones, her cane thumping like the beat of a death knell as she made her way toward him, “you are come at last. I must say, it took you long enough.”
Every eye in the hall turned his way. And chaos ensued.
Lady Phoebe and Margery reached him first, their excitement at his appearance something that should have given him happiness. But he could not find joy in it. Instead, with those ladies on one side, Lady Tesh on the other demanding his attention, and Peter approaching with Lenora, he felt the last tentative hold he had managed to keep on his emotions begin to snap. They congregated about him, closing him in. Making him feel as if he would break on the spot.
“Goodness, give Mr. Nesbitt some space.”
Lady Clara’s voice was like a balm over the group. Immediately they settled some, stepping back a fraction. It was as if a stormy sea had suddenly calmed, as if the furious rocking of the boat he was in had been put to rights. As if the sun had arrived.
And she was sunshine. She stood poised in the middle of the staircase, all slender grace and sable curls, a serene smile lifting her full lips ever so slightly. Yet her eyes were filled with concern as she glanced at him.
Those eyes saw too much, beckoning him into her confidence like the sirens of old. And heaven help him, just moments ago he had been prepared to gladly drown in their depths.
A dangerous thing, indeed. His future was too much in flux. He could ill afford to be tempted by anything, let alone by someone who affected him as Lady Clara did.
The momentary lull in sound, however, was short-lived. “Poppycock,” Lady Tesh scoffed. “The man has been gone far too long and would have expected such a welcome, I warrant.” She turned her sharp brown eyes on him. “I am quite put out with you for not taking Peter and Lenora up on their offer to stay here at Dane House. How else shall I relieve myself from boredom, I ask you?”
“Boredom?” Peter demanded. “Please. There has not been a moment of boredom since we arrived.”
“So says the one person in this household who has absented himself from a good portion of our time here.” She waved one heavily beringed hand in dismissal. “How often does one need to disappear into his study, I ask you?”
Quincy’s head was beginning to pound. “Peter?” he tried in an effort to gain his friend’s attention.
“What exactly do you think I’m doing in there, madam?” Peter questioned his great-aunt with a coolness that would have sent any full-grown man running.
Lady Tesh, however, was not one to be cowed. Quincy had every confidence that she could frighten off a bull elephant in full charge. Or rather, she would gladly flag it down to torment it, just as she was doing with Peter if the barely concealed mischief in her eyes was any indication. Such a thing would normally delight Quincy to no end, but not today.
“You are not spending time with your family, that’s what you’re doing,” she taunted.
Which, of course, drew Peter’s complete ire. As his friend straightened to his full, impressive height and stared the viscountess down with all the force of his Viking ancestors, Quincy’s frustration increased. It would be no easy thing getting his friend off alone. “Peter—” he tried again.
“Do you think the books balance themselves?” Peter snapped, unable to hear Quincy in his growing outrage. “That correspondence answers itself? That the estate is managed with magic from the very air?”
“Please. All the noblemen I know have people to do those things. You needn’t work yourself to the bone if you delegate.”
“I am not most noblemen,” he bit out.
Her answer was drier than day-old toast. “I’d gathered that.”
Lenora finally stepped in. “Please, you two,” she said with an exaggerated patience that told of many such fights halted in their tracks.
“I won’t stand for it, Lenora,” her husband growled. “As if I would hire someone to do what I can do in my sleep.”
“I know,” she soothed.
“Ah, I see the way of it,” Lady Tesh said with an injured air. “You are taking his side.”
“Once again, there are no sides,” Clara interjected, moving beside her aunt to lay a calming hand on her arm.
“Like hell there aren’t,” Peter muttered.
“You see?” Lady Tesh said, pointing to Peter with her cane.
Margery moved into the eye of the storm then, Lady Tesh’s small pup, Freya, cradled in her arms. “Clara is right, Gran. And besides, you are oversetting yourself.”
“And overstepping,” Peter added under his breath.
Quincy watched it all with mounting frustration and desperation. He could see no end to the domestic battle being waged gleefully before his very eyes. As the general din increased, Lady Tesh sputtering as her nieces and granddaughter jumped in to calm her, he finally snapped.
“Damn it, Peter, I just learned I’m a duke and I need your help.”